


No More Next Times

by Eloarei



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Depression, Family, Gen, Magic, Post Traumatic Stress, Pre-Canon, Speculation, Tragedy, surrogate parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloarei/pseuds/Eloarei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the tragedy that will later define his life, Hanna is taken in by his last remaining relative, slowly opening up to her and finding, eventually, that there is some hope in this sea of darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Next Times

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly a speculative piece about Hanna's life before we met him, inspired by a few of Tessa's teasing drawings of young-Hanna. This was actually the first HINABN fic I wrote, I just didn't publish it until way later.

She had her thick red hair wrapped up in a bun on her head. Strands were falling out here and there, making it look like she'd had a tough day, but that was always how she looked, so either every _day_ was tough, or she needed to upgrade to a better hair tie. He thought it was probably the first one, from the way she always acted when she got home from work.

She'd kick off her shoes and set her purse down beside them, then shrug off her coat as she shouted down the hallway, “Hanna, you had best be working on your homework!” And then she'd stomp down the hall towards his dark and empty bedroom and stand in the doorway with her hands on her hips, glaring at the scrawny boy and his obvious lack of progress. It was some sort of ugly routine. They'd been at it for months now, but so far not a thing had changed. 

“Right, of course,” Aunt Candice murmured now, rolling her eyes slightly in irritation. “I suppose a little effort out of you would be too much to ask.” She gave him one last look, disappointed and tired, before turning away and heading back down the hall towards the kitchen, leaving Hanna to his thoughts, whatever they might be. 

By the time dinner rolled around, she was a little less grumpy, though he was no farther in his homework. They settled down for a quiet spaghetti-and-meatballs for two in the apartment's clean and compact kitchen, but before he could begin to eat, Aunt Candice placed a hand on his arm and looked steadily into his dull blue-grey eyes. “Tell me about your day, Hanna,” she instructed him. 

There was silence for a few moments, but soon he would speak up. Neither was a stranger to this dangerous game they played; he was hungry, and her patience would only last so long. Her grip on his arm tightened, her stare intensified. 

Finally he found his voice, a meek little thing hardly befitting the word. “...Same as usual...” he told her. He was tempted to break eye-contact but instead concentrated on creating another meager sentence to please her. “I... aced the history quiz today?” 

Candice smiled gently and removed her hand from his arm. “That's wonderful! Tell me more,” she said. Hanna gave a small relieved sigh; they had won the game today. 

He began to shovel spaghetti noodles into his mouth, even as he continued to speak. “It was... about Ancient Egyptian culture... Most of the other kids failed pretty bad... Mrs. Jones actually smiled at me when she handed back the test...” Candice laughed softly as Hanna wiped a sticky noodle from his chin with a shy, goofy look on his face. It was nice to see that pieces of her silly nephew still existed beneath the shadow he'd become. 

“So you like history?” she asked, hopeful that she'd stumbled across something new for them to discuss. 

He shrugged, but nodded. “I guess so.”

“Then why don't you let me help you with your history homework later on,” she suggested. “Maybe we could even have some ice cream and watch a movie afterward.” 

Hanna could tell it was largely a clever ploy to get him to do his homework, but the hope shining in her tired eyes made it impossible to refuse. Besides, ice cream and a movie sounded a whole lot better than going to sleep early and drowning in nightmares. So he nodded his head at her and stuffed his mouth with a giant meatball to mask the optimistic grin that was quickly creeping up on his face. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

It took some time, but slowly life began to ease into a semblance of normality for the both of them. Understandably, things had been hard for Hanna. He hadn't been in the most stable of states when Candice had shown up to take him home and uphold the promise she'd once made to her sister. The poor thing was nothing like the colorful boy she'd remembered from years before, he didn't even look the same. The curly red hair was now short and drab, and his pale face held no trace of those tell-tale freckles. Only his eyes betrayed him as the real Hanna Falk Cross, vibrant blue dulled almost to grey but still so like his mother's, and like Candice's own. 

“Mom?” she thought she'd heard him whisper upon their first re-meeting, but his tiny voice was so quiet she couldn't be sure.

“Honey, it's me, your aunt Candice. Remember me?” She was met with only silence and a downturned stare, maybe a shimmer of wetness in those solemn eyes. “Hanna, sweetie, c'mon. Let's go home.” 

And so they had, but it was rough. Not only for wraith-like Hanna, so badly scarred by some tragedy he couldn't name; Candice was lost herself. She loved the boy, of course (they were family), but she'd never had any children of her own, didn't know how to deal with one so fragile as her soul-shattered nephew, especially when he looked at her with those dead eyes and silently pleaded, “why aren't you _her_?” It was hard, too, knowing that this boy was the only one who held any clue to the mystery of her sister's death, but knowing equally well that he'd never tell. 

In time though, they got to know each other well enough to see each other as individuals, not just shadows of a person they had known and loved. Dinners became more pleasant, and soon Hanna required very little prompting to chatter energetically about his day or whatever struck his fancy. In fact, it seemed the boy had found a solace in conversation that was never present in silence, for he spoke often, quickly, and many times aimlessly, as if trying to fill the cold empty air with warm words. 

Soon, Candice's problem was not trying to get him to speak, but trying to decipher the small truths hidden throughout his lengthy monologues. 

Ice cream and movies became a nightly after-homework tradition, and in little time Hanna was well-versed in both Ancient History and popular film titles. Candice was pleased to find that Hanna's mind was just as bright and inquisitive as before (if still stubborn in its refusal to study any other subjects) and it made spending time with him a joy. 

On weekends they would go shopping, sometimes window-to-window, other times actually stopping in to look around and maybe even purchase something. She rarely bought anything for herself, but the smile on Hanna's face convinced her she could occasionally afford him a new shirt for his growing collection of patterns and colors. 

They ate out frequently at whatever new restaurant or cafe caught their eye, Hanna seeming more than happy to stuff his face with whatever showed up on his plate, as long as there were no vegetables in sight to contaminate it. 

Through their comfortable daily activities, it seemed he was finally returning to life, and Candice could finally breathe a sigh of relief, glad that she hadn't let her sister down. Some nights, she even _didn't_ cry herself to sleep. 

This routine was all good and well, but she knew she should have realized they weren't quite out of the danger zone yet. It had been months since Hanna's last quiet spell, and she was _sure_ they were past it, but when she came home to a deadly quiet house, her heart froze. There was no music, no blare of the TV, no barking of a stray puppy brought home (it had happened more than once), just ominous silence. She kicked off her shoes and tossed down her purse, then stomped down the hall to stand in his doorway. 

The boy was huddled in a corner of his bed, head tucked under his crossed arms, just as she'd have found him many months ago. 

Swallowing the stiffness that had wormed its way into her throat, Candice called to him gently. “Hanna? What's the matter sweetie?” When he showed no response, she became frustrated. _'We were doing so well!'_ she thought angrily. With no clue what to do, she left him to his darkness and went to order dinner. 

Half an hour later the doorbell signaled the arrival of their usual Chinese family feast. Candice looked up from opening the paper boxes at the dining table to find a dead-eyed Hanna lumbering toward the kitchen like a zombie, routine and the delicious smell of mandarin chicken apparently compelling him despite his depressive state. 

She finished setting the table and sat down across from her barely-conscious nephew, eying him somewhat warily, and settled a hand on his arm before he could begin to eat. 

“Hanna,” she started, a twinge of desperation in her voice, “how was your day?” 

She gave him a moment, but he said nothing, and when she tightened her grip she noticed that he was beginning to tremble. She tried to look into his downcast eyes, but found her own too foggy to focus. 

“Hanna...” She moved her other hand to grip his. “Hanna. I don't want to play this game anymore. Please talk to me!” Candice took her hand from his wrist and scrubbed the film from her cloudy eyes. She looked up just in time to see a tear struggle down his face and drip right into his egg-drop soup. 

“I'm s-” he began to whisper, sniffles interrupting whatever he meant to say. “I couldn't... I had never seen... like magic...” He grabbed a napkin and wiped it roughly across his face, frustrated with the tears. 

Candice blinked down at him. _'What? Magic? But he-'_ And then things started to make sense. Of course, of course. Of course he wouldn't talk about it... The first doctor to say “no such thing” would have ensured that. Of course he'd have nightmares of faceless, formless, destructive chaos that came and went without warning. Of course he'd be afraid of the very world around him, teeming with invisible evils. 

Of course he'd think himself alone. Every miserable child to be plagued by the supernatural thought they were the only one. 

She let go of his hand, stood up and moved across to his side of the table and pulled him into a desperate crushing hug. “I'm sorry... Please, everything's going to be alright, I swear.” 

They stayed like that for several minutes, Hanna sniffling into her shoulder and Candice petting his messy hair, until she had an idea. “I know what will help.” He pulled his head off her shoulder and looked up, just daring to be hopeful. “Self defense. I'll teach you what I know. Then we'll find you a teacher for the rest.” 

_'What... “what I know”?'_ He looked at her quizzically. 

She tried to smile at him, though her throat was still tight with unshed tears. “You're not the only one. I promise you, you're not alone.” 

“You... you're going to teach me... magic?” he croaked, hardly believing he wasn't crazy. 

Candice couldn't help but laugh a little at Hanna's excitement. He was still very much a curious child... “Not tonight,” she told him. “Not yet. You need to... calm your mind first.” She eyed the dining table with the rapidly cooling Chinese food. “And I think we'd better eat before everything gets cold.” 

And so they continued with their evening, the promise of “better, safer” burning warmly between them like a little candle in the night, modest but more than enough to drive out the darkness. 

OoOoOoOoOoO 

Then it was gone. 

He wept quietly, hardly believing (and yet how could he not?) that now _she_ was gone too, his very last anchor in this dark and deceitful world. Up in flames, scorching hellfire that couldn't have been an accident, even without the stench of evil that rose in smoky tendrils from the remnants of Candice's apartment, the remnants of the life she'd given him. 

Tomorrow was to have been the day, the day she was to force the demons away and teach him. But now he was on his own, again, alone and at the mercy of his supernatural tormentors. 

_'I brought this on her,'_ he thought, and the fire reflected in his eyes. For a moment it only represented the wild fear of being without, but then the flickering flames began to seep into his soul, and warm him with a sense of resolve. _'I won't let it happen again, I promise.'_

A pack of sirens wailed not far in the distance, closing in quickly to rescue and assess. But there was nobody to save, and they'd never find the cause, and Hanna wasn't going to be around to watch them fail to do so. The world was big, frighteningly so. There were others out there who needed what little hope he hoped he could give them. If he put his mind to it, he was sure he could learn to help them. 

And then maybe there wouldn't be a 'next time'.


End file.
